


Birthday Brawls, Babies & Butterbeers

by valancyjane74



Series: Five Years Later (post quinquennium) [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Romance, Bleur, Brotherly Bonding, Casual Sex, Drinking & Talking, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fist Fights, Humor, Infertility, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Ronsy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancyjane74/pseuds/valancyjane74
Summary: Bill & Fleur Weasley’s marriage is on shaky ground; after a catastrophic argument at Shell Cottage, Bill returns to The Burrow and is forced to share an attic bedroom with the ‘heartbroken’ birthday boy - his baby brother Ron.Tempers flare and fists fly until the bad boys are banished to the local pub to sort out their differences.Alcohol loosens tongues and inhibitions, eventually leading to a brotherly challenge/prank and a nude Ron reluctantly roaming Greater Ottery St Catchpole… until he unexpectedly runs into an old Hogwarts schoolmate.Will Ron get a dose of his own (sexual) medicine?Will Bill and Fleur reconcile?What’s the actual alcoholic content of Butterbeers?...(1-2%).“Stay out of my business, ‘Ickle Ronnie’ – and you’re not fit to speak my wife’s name… you immature, parasitical little shite,” Bill’s lupine scars prickle as he edges closer, grinning ferally. “Mum tells me that Hermione definitively gave you the heave-ho yesterday – I could have told you years ago you’re not worthy of her.”“Shut your mouth, Wolfie,” Ron’s aquamarine eyes have darkened to indigo at Bill’s cruel jab. “Or I’ll throw you out of here on your skinny, wifeless arse..."
Relationships: Bill Weasley & Ron Weasley, Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley
Series: Five Years Later (post quinquennium) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821316
Comments: 21
Kudos: 33





	Birthday Brawls, Babies & Butterbeers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nusquam aliud est vertere (Nowhere else to turn)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994118) by [valancyjane74](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancyjane74/pseuds/valancyjane74). 



> To my beta reader @recoveringjaddict5 -  
> Thank you for all your support, wisdom, and wonderful friendship!  
> I am deeply grateful, and blessed to know you. 
> 
> Many thanks to @KoraKwidditch for creating the cover image for this story.  
> She is amazingly talented, generous, and patient.  
> I love my 'Pretty' to bits!

_Saturday 01 March 2003: PM_

Bill waits until the door has securely closed behind his mother before he violently slings his dilapidated duffel bag into the near corner of the attic bedroom; the ensuing thud reverberates along the uneven floorboards and earns an indignant “Oi!” from the occupant of the other single bed.

“Shut it, Ron,” Bill snarls, his characteristically laid-back temperament in abeyance tonight. “Stick your swollen head back into your girlie mag and leave me the fuck alone.”

Ron jack-knifes from his prone position, sending the dubious literature glissading to the hooked dull umber rug.

“It’s a sporting magazine!” he indignantly defends, big hands clasped and squeezing around his head of vivid brick-red hair as if to measure the normalcy of its circumference. “There’re Quidditch players on the cover!”.

“Strategically hanging off broomsticks in their lingerie?” Bill jeers. “Isn’t it past time you grew up, _Ronniekins_? Stopped treating women like disposable sex objects? And oh – here’s an idea – moved out of your childhood home?” he spits.

The saner part of Bill recognizes that he is overreacting; but if Ron wants to start a fight, Bill is ready to fucking rumble tonight.

“Says the bloke who’s just moved back in,” Ron gives as good as he gets. “Fleur finally got sick of your ugly mug, eh?”.

Apparently Ron isn’t going to back down, either; his not-so-little brother rolls off the bed to stand menacingly beside it, hands contracting into ready dukes as his top lip crimps upward.

Bill’s choleric blood begins to sing a song of avid, atavistic savagery as he shrugs out of his drab olive jacket and ostentatiously flexes his strong shoulders. He’s taller – but Ron is broader. Bill prowls closer.

“Stay out of my business, ‘Ickle Ronnie’ – and you’re not fit to speak my wife’s name… you immature, parasitical little shite,” Bill’s lupine scars prickle as he edges closer, grinning ferally. “Mum tells me that Hermione definitively gave you the heave-ho yesterday – I could have told you years ago you’re not worthy of her.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, _Wolfie_ ,” Ron’s aquamarine eyes have darkened to indigo at Bill’s cruel jab. “Or I’ll throw you out of here on your skinny, _wifeless_ arse.”

The last insult is pathetically crude, but it does the trick; the brothers launch at each other like two enraged Thestrals battling for herd dominance. They haven’t brawled like this before – the ten year gap in their ages precluded any truly rough combat – but both have sparred with other siblings many times over the years.

Ron draws first blood, landing a savage right uppercut that slams Bill’s lower jaw into his left incisor; his lip splits, dripping scarlet globules onto the elderly rug. Bill retaliates with a swift wallop to Ron’s undefended stomach, causing the younger man to double over, gasping for his next pained breath.

Rallying quickly, Ron ups the ante by charging into Bill and sweeping him onto the spare cot in a full-body tackle, bellowing in rage as they both bounce off the bed and onto the unforgiving floor.

One of the bedside lamps makes a fatal swan dive off the central chest of drawers, bulb shattering and the lampshade rolling to parts unknown as the fraternal fisticuffs devolve into slaps and pinches at such close quarters. Bill applies a nasty donkey bite to Ron’s uncovered forearm; Ron retaliates with a vicious nipple-cripple as both men yowl in infuriated pain.

Neither of them take heed of the light footsteps dashing up the steps and the bedroom door swinging open, until a light soprano voice screeches back down the staircase.

“Mum! Bill and Ron are fighting and they’ve already smashed the lamp! Come quick!” Ginny’s voice is rich in gleeful schadenfreude. The youngest Weasley props herself against the jamb, content with her first-row viewing platform.

The scrappy, rapidly-degenerating fracas abruptly terminates with the arrival of an enraged Molly Weasley. She pushes her daughter back into the dim hallway, clearing a path to the scuffling brothers. With a skilled sweep of her wand, she conjures a decisive “ _Aguamenti!_ ”; a wave of cold, clean water drenches the two men tumbling on the floor.

“BLOODY DRAGON STEAKS!” bellows Bill.

“FU-FUDGSICLES!” roars Ron, pulling the intended profanity at the last moment as he catches sight of his mother’s livid countenance.

“I’LL GIVE YOU ‘FUDGSICLES’, RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!” Molly smoothly swings her wand from right to left again; the second wave smacks Ron fair in the face. He sputters and chokes as some of the liquid goes down the wrong way.

“Mum – don’t, please – we’ll stop!” Ron gargles. His Chudley Cannons socks slip on the precariously dampened floorboards as he struggles to stand. Bill has already risen to his feet and is glowering by the door as he wrings out his longish roan locks.

“Ooh you’ll stop alright, my boy,” Molly grimly concurs. “Get out of this house this instant – and that applies to the both of you,” she clarifies as Bill begins to smirk at his hapless sibling.

“You may return when you’ve sorted out your differences, and not a moment sooner.” With a decisive nod of her carroty curls, Molly crosses her capable arms and taps an imperious foot.

“Well? You should be ashamed of yourselves, tussling on the floor like a pair of common goblins.”

“But Mum… it’s my birthday!” Ron whines. He stumbles to his feet and uses his dull grey t-shirt as a facial washer, exposing his pale, taut abdominal muscles.

Molly is unmoved. “Well, you’d best find an appropriate venue to celebrate it, Ronald… because our home is off-limits until you and William grow up. Off you go.” Molly grabs their respective jackets, bundling the garments into their damp arms. She prods her much taller sons ahead of her and down the rickety staircase as Ginny giggles from the landing. Her gloating merriment doesn’t escape her mother’s sharp notice, either.

“Ginevra! Would you care to join your brothers in exile, seeing as how you’re finding their situation so hilarious?” Molly barks.

“No, Mum… I just remembered, I promised Dad I’d give him a hand in his Muggle shed,” Ginny skips out of sight before her parent can make good on her threat.

Hustling her big boys to the front door, Molly gives the two men an affectionate, resolute pat on their strong backs. “I mean it, gentlemen – don’t come back here tonight unless you’re both prepared to share a room and house without the slightest chance of a ruckus recurring.”

Molly slams and locks the doors behind them.

* * *

The murky crepuscular light of an early spring evening is beginning to fail. Bill sighs heavily, wiping a healthy trickle of carmine blood from his busted lower lip. He extracts his wand from a zippered jacket pocket and quickly mutters the Hot-Air drying charm (“ _Aer Calidus_ ”) on his dripping clothing. He shoots his brother a disgusted look before trudging down the road.

“You prick, Bill – couldn’t you have dried off my clothes, too?” Ron squawks. “So much for brotherly love.” Ron rubs sulkily at his rapidly bruising left eye socket.

“And you gave me a black eye… on my _birthday_.”

Whirling, Bill is caustically amused to witness Ron’s involuntary recoil as he points his wand at his younger bro. “Calm down – you wanted to be dried off, didn’t you?”. Bill doesn’t wait for Ron’s reply as he repeats the charm.

“Thanks,” Ron mumbles as he falls into step beside the older man. “Where are we going?”

“The Ram and Pennant – where else would we go, Ron? It’s not as though we have much choice in the bustling metropolis of Ottery St Catchpole,” Bill dryly intones.

“Well – we could try The Bellwether and Banner if you fancy a change of scenery?” Ron asks hopefully.

Bill dismisses the suggestion immediately. “What – and risk every Muggle in the place overhearing us squabble in wizard-speak? Use your fat head, Ron.”

“Don’t call me names, Bill. I’m trying to set aside our differences, remember? I saw Mum making a triple layer chocolate cake earlier. I’m not gonna let the Billywig that’s crawled up your arse ruin it for me,” Ron grumps.

“Merlin’s beard, Ron – do you ever think of anything but food?” Bill says exasperatedly but without real heat.

“Yeah. Sport and sex,” Ron readily grins. “Not in that order, necessarily.”

Resolving to spend the rest of the short walk in silence, Bill just shakes his head at the facetious assertion.

Once the pair have swung onto a couple of empty stools at the end of the unpretentious, cosy bar and ordered two pints of Butterbeer with Firewhiskey shot bombs, Ron takes the conversational lead.

“What’s happened between you and Fleur then?”. His cerulean eyes track the way Bill defensively hunches over his drink.

“What, you really want to know? What happened to ‘food, sex and sport’?” Bill gibes.

Ron licks at his beer moustache as he smirks, “You have sex with your beautiful wife, don’t you?”. The cheeky arse bobbles his pint glass as Bill’s scowling face betrays his unspoken answer.

“Bloody hell, Bill! Has your knob fallen off? You have GOT to be kidding me!” Ron wheezes in disbelief.

“Keep your sodding voice down, you indiscreet berk!” Bill hisses. A couple of withered barflies are myopically peering their way at Ron’s loud interjection.

Swigging half his pint in one gulp, Ron shakes his head incredulously. “Seriously? C’mon Bill – you can’t leave it at that. Promise I’ll button my lips.” He belches as the Butterbeer/Firewhiskey starts to take effect.

“Sorry, sorry! And it’s my birthday, Billyboy – don’t tear off and leave me drowning my sorrows on my lonesome. My heart’s broken, you know.” Ron’s attempt to look piteous is ruined by his next raucous burp. He gloomily adds, “Hermione didn’t send me so much as card this year… she’s never forgotten to get me something before.”

Bill tips a hearty slug of the amber ale down his own throat. “Ron – you broke up with Hermione a year ago,” he points out inexorably. “Why are you suddenly so devastated by her refusal to reconcile? From what Mum and Ginny have told me, you wasted no time moving on.”

“We were on a break!” Ron lowers his increasingly loud voice at Bill’s forbidding glare. “I thought we were just… on a break,” he repeats. “Not – you know – busted up forever.”

“So you thought you could have your Cauldron Cake and eat it, too,” Bill interprets.

“I never understood that bloody saying – what else would you do with cake? Huh?” Ron signals for another Firewhiskey-infused Butterbeer.

“It’s a metaphor, you Dorcus. Did you really think you could sow your wild Mandrakes and Hermione would be waiting patiently in the wings until you were ready to settle down?” Bill is edging into a righteous fury again; he forces himself to unfurl his tense fists and straighten his tall frame.

“Let’s face it, Ron – you were damned lucky Hermione ever gave you a shot with her in the first place. Just like me and Fleur,” Bill morosely concludes.

“Yeah – you were supposed to tell me about _that_ , and not slam me for being dumped,” Ron urges as he sucks down another half-pint.

Screw it. He has to confide in someone; considering the speed at which Ron is imbibing the fortified Butterbeers, his annoying ‘little’ brother is unlikely to remember much tomorrow.

“We can’t get pregnant.” The harsh, sterile truth catapults from Bill’s mobile mouth like an unexploded firework from his brothers’ joke shop.

Ron blinks owlishly. “Mate – you don’t have a womb – you _can’t_ have a baby,” he stage-whispers.

“You frigging idiot! It’s what you say nowadays, so the expectation of fertility doesn’t solely fall on your wife… Fuck, why am I bothering?” Bills casts his eyes to the warmly lit, wood-panelled ceiling and fights the impulse to clip Ron upside the head.

“Nah – I get it… that was a _joke_ , Billyboy.” Ron’s wide, guileless grin softens Bill’s dour aspect.

“So you’re having some trouble… erm… in that area?” Ron gestures at Bill’s groin.

“If you’re suggesting I suffer from erectile dysfunction – no,” Bill sternly elucidates. “The thing is… we’ve been trying to have a baby for a couple of years now, and Fleur’s pretty cut up that it hasn’t happened yet. And our sex life… well, the last six months I’ve felt like the ageing stud bull that the farmer is starting to eye up for next season’s steaks,” he glumly admits. He washes down the bitter admission with the remainder of his first drink.

“Right, right,” Ron nods sagely as he guzzles at his third pint. “But why’re you sitting here with me instead of hashing it out with your wife?” he points out, with unexpected perspicacity.

Bill’s scarified cheek twitches. “I got home early tonight and cooked up a surprise romantic dinner while Fleur was out visiting an old Beauxbatons classmate. Went the whole hog: roses, candles, used the good wedding gift dinnerware and silverware – you know… No, you probably don’t know,” Bill ruefully corrects.

The mild insult barely registers on Ron’s increasingly intoxicated freckled face. “I hear ya, man.”

Bill ploughs on joylessly. “So I’d just slid the filet mignons onto the plate to rest when Fleur returned. She ran into the dining room, didn’t even see the dinner setting… she barely said hello before she informed me that she was ovulating and we had to have sex. _Immédiatement_. I asked if we couldn’t enjoy a romantic meal together first, but she just yanked on my arm and started to drag me to the bedroom. And I… I told her I couldn’t live this way anymore.’

“So… Fleur threw me out. She was screaming that I didn’t love her enough to care about having a baby together… that I was selfish and inconsiderate. I didn’t yell at my wife, Ron – but I said some harsh things that I immediately regretted.”

“Like what?” Ron is agog, fascinated by the drama Bill is relating.

Bill pushes away the dregs of his second boozy, buttery lager. “Like… that her obsession with having a child was smothering me – us. And that maybe what she really wanted to say was that she regretted marrying an old, scarred, dormant wolf.”

“Oh jeez, Bill – you really stepped in the Erumpent dung this time, didn’t ya?” Ron waggles his forefinger and head admonishingly and nearly wobbles off the stool.

“Yeah. I did. And then I clammed up – I just froze, you know? And Fleur told me that if I wouldn’t talk to her, I should leave.’

Bill cynically scans the half-empty wizard pub. “And here we are. I’ve been kicked out of two of my homes tonight – and you’re spending your twenty-third birthday in a piddly pub with a black eye and a sad sack brother. Happy birthday, Ron.” He sketches a mock salute. “To the Wild Weasleys!”

“The Wild Weasleys!” Ron raises his fourth Butterbeer head-high and licks at his wrist as malty foam dribbles down the glass onto his arm. A sudden thought strikes the inebriated redhead.

“Hey Bill – you know what we should do? We should go down to that big old sweet chestnut tree near the Lovegoods’ joint and see who can climb to the top first! I bet you fifty Galleons I win!”.

Bill is about to demur the silly dare when a diabolical thought strikes. He smothers his wicked smirk.

“What a brilliant idea, little brother! Lead the way!”.

* * *

“Bill – the prize’s definitely fifty Galleons, right?”

The elder Weasley brother pauses his slow disrobing, his pale viridian eyes gleaming with mischief. “Correct-a-mundo, little brother! First to climb naked to the top of the tree collects fifty Galleons from the loser… you almost ready, Ronnie?” he bites back his grin as Ron hastens to pull off his last holey woollen sock, hopping clumsily as he leans against the wide circumference of the sweet chestnut tree.

“Yeah – we’d better get up there mate, it’s almost pitch black…” Ron’s enunciation is slightly fuzzy (he’d managed to scull a fifth alcoholic libation before they’d charged out of The Ram and Pennant, after all), but Bill is relieved that his brother’s coordination isn’t suffering overmuch from the alcohol in his bloodstream. He fully intends to prank and humiliate Ronniekins tonight… but he has no desire for the git to drunkenly tumble from a great height and break his neck.

Satisfied that Ron should survive the night, Bill piles his own clothing beside Ron’s slapdash heap.

“Count of three? One… two… “ Predictably, Ron breaks early on ‘two’, flinging himself at the broad tree trunk as he scrabbles at the nearest handhold. The venerable age of the old tree has fissured the bark, making it easy for Ron to swing himself upwards.

“Ha! This is gonna be a walk in the park… easiest gold coin I ever made!” Ron’s boast floats down from the first layer of arboreal canopy.

Bill makes a token effort to emulate Ron’s rapid ascent; he waits until the other man is halfway to the apex before he scarpers back to the ground. Ron is still crowing various taunts as he climbs, his impending victory blinding him to the lack of movement from his competitor. The surrounding gloom helps to keep Ron unaware of Bill’s true intentions.

It is a matter of moments before Bill has re-dressed himself and gathered all of Ron’s discarded apparel; he chuckles softly as he checks that Ron’s wand is safely stored in a jeans pocket.

“Woo hoo! I’m King of the Sweet Chestnut tonight! You didn’t stand a chance, Bill Weasley!” Ron whoops from a great height. Bill lets his silence do the talking.

“Oi! Bill? I know you’re slow, but c’mon! Billyboy?” Ron’s shout is puzzled, disgruntled… and just a tad anxious, Bill is roguishly delighted to note.

“Yeah, Ron? You win! Thing is… there’s been a change of plans, brother o’ mine,” Bill tips his head back to holler into the dense shadows above.

“Huh? Whaddya mean… ‘change of plans’?” Ron proceeds to swear rather creatively as Bill hears him miss a few branches in his attempt to swiftly descend.

“I’ll have your prize monies ready for you on Monday, Ickle Ronnie – but for now, I’m going to take your advice and go talk to my beautiful bride.”

 _Ah_. It’s a shame Ron can’t see the huge grin suffusing Bill’s face, the tall wizard muses.

Ron pauses his hurried reverse-climb. “Good on ya, mate! Wait… I said that?”

“Eh. More or less,” Bill concedes. “Here’s the kicker, Won-Won: I’m taking your clothes with me – and your wand. Let’s call it a growth experience, hmm? And I’d strongly advise against attempting to Apparate back to The Burrow – you’re too drunk not to splinch yourself.”

Another loaded silence, broken by Ron’s hearty guffaw. “Ha! Good one, Bill – you almost had me there! Hang on, I’ll be down in just a tic –“

Bill glimpses Ron’s large, pallid, dirt- and bark-encrusted feet dangling from the lower branches. Time to bugger off.

“I’ll return your wand and gear tomorrow, never fear. Happy birthday, baby bro!” Bill finally unleashes the boisterous laughter he’s been suppressing since they left the pub. Ignoring Ron’s enraged roars and vicious threats of retribution, Bill closes his eyes and prepares to Apparate to Shell Cottage.

* * *

“Fuck!” Ron screams for the twelfth time as he kicks ragefully at the innocent trunk of the huge sweet chestnut tree. He immediately regrets his rash action as his bare foot strikes and rebounds off the unforgivingly hard, barked surface; the crashing pain sets off another round of savage epithets. The furious young man curses Bill with more inventiveness than most of his peers would ever credit him capable of, as he spits out one vitriolic oath after another.

Temper tantrum finally spent, Ron flings himself against the base of the solid tree, crossing and rubbing his strong arms in a futile effort to warm them. The chill of the night is increasingly uncomfortable. Ron wonders bitterly if Bill fully considered the danger of frostbite before he enacted his obnoxious practical ‘joke’.

“Happy fucking birthday, Ronald Bilius Weasley,” he indulges in a spot of maudlin self-pity. His Firewhiskey-enhanced Butterbeer buzz is beginning to wear off – might he be right to try to Apparate home, despite Bill’s dire warning?

Probably not. Ron admits to himself that his ability to Apparate is not… great, even when he hasn’t imbibed a skinful. Maybe he wouldn’t splinch himself… but he’s not willing to take the risk.

Which leaves the only other option – he needs to start walking home. Nude. In the dark. On a frosty spring night in Devon. Wandless and friendless. Ron rises to his feet and makes a cursory effort to swipe his exposed muscular bum and legs clean of leaf matter and loose earth.

“Bastard didn’t even leave me a bloody hankie,” he moans dolefully, moving out from behind the tree to re-join the narrow track beside the stream at the bottom of the Lovegoods’ hill.

And promptly stops dead at the vague – but unmistakably female – silhouette a few feet in front of his squinting eyes. Ron instinctively covers his temperature-affected genitals with his hands, despite the opacity of the night.

He has no idea of the identity of the chance-met stranger, but Ron clearly witnesses the woman brandishing a wand and directing it at his face.

“Raise your hands and state your name,” the mystery witch demands in a low, menacing… familiar? voice.

“I’d really rather not,” Ron drawls. “You might understand my reluctance if it weren’t blacker than black out here.”

“That’s easily remedied – don’t move a muscle.” The end of the witch’s wand erupts in a stream of concentrated light as she intones, “ _Lumos_ ”. Ron flinches and squeezes shut his aqua eyes as she moves the beam from the ruffled crown of his head to his filthy bare toes.

The sound of the stranger’s mocking chuckle seems unnaturally loud to Ron’s startled ears. He is relieved when the glaring glow flicks away from his face… then perturbed when it settles on his cupped hands as they shield his ‘Chudley Cannon’.

“Hey! That’s objectification!” Ron protests indignantly. The wand-light hits him in the face once more.

“Can you even _spell_ ‘objectification’, Big Red?” the amusement in the woman’s voice broadcasts loud and clear.

“’Course I can!” he hotly objects to the slur on his intellect. Ron hurries to change the subject. “Who’s asking? You’re not being fair here – and it’s as cold as a witch’s… unlit hearth,” he lamely amends the sexist adage at the last moment.

He cracks open one cautious eye as the wand turns toward its owner, revealing…

“Pansy Parkinson?” he breathes in amazement. “What the f-Furnunculus are you doing here?”

His brief illuminated glance was enough to reveal more than the mere identity of his old Hogwarts schoolmate. Ron is unable to deny the fact that Pansy has… grown up. In the very best of ways. Ron shifts and grips his interested, burgeoning member as surreptitiously as possible in an effort to diminish the visceral effect of Pansy’s stunning jasper-green eyes beneath her elegantly arched dark brows. High slanted cheekbones, straight nose, delicately-chiselled nostrils, and that gloriously over-full, heart-shaped mouth…

Ron intensifies his strangling grip to the point of pain. Best not to think about Parkinson’s full breasts or narrow waist beneath her lovingly-tailored, stylish black dress and open coat. Or her long, waterfall-straight dark hickory hair. Nope. _Not_ a good idea, under the naked circumstances.

“Not that it's any of your concern, but I had business with Xenophilius," Pansy states.

"Now that we’re all caught up – why are you strolling around in your birthday suit on the edge of the Lovegoods’ property, Big Red?”. Her caustic mirth hasn’t abated in the slightest.

Birthday suit. _Ha_. Ron shakes his sobering head with a dry chortle.

“Funny story, Pansy – my bastard big brother Bill tricked me into climbing this tree – “ he jerks his head – “and took off with my clothes and wand while I was still celebrating my hollow victory.” Ron’s quietly proud of his faultless pronunciation, what with all the… alliteration! _Yeah_.

“You wanna know the best bit? It’s my birthday today. I’ve been chucked out of my own home and conned into freezing my bollocks off in a field, I’m too pissed to Apparate back safely, and I’ve missed out on my favourite bloody chocolate cake! So go ahead – laugh. Have at it.”

Pansy doesn’t laugh; instead, she again runs the spelled light up and down his denuded body. Slowly. The light swings back to the ground beneath their feet as she finishes her leisurely inspection.

“Exactly how drunk are you, Big Red?” Pansy asks, softly and intently. “Too hammered to shag?”

Ron rapidly pushes past his incredulity at the query, zeroing in on the sincerity of Parkinson’s question.

“There’s plenty of hard steel in my ‘Sword of Gryffindor’, Pansy,” his voice deepens automatically as he shrugs, deciding she may as well see for herself. Ron’s big freckled hands drop to his sides as he awaits her verdict.

He doesn’t have long to wait.

“Fancy a fuck?” Pansy’s unexpectedly prosaic offer is almost as much of a turn-on as the proposition itself. Ron’s engorged cock nods excitedly against his sculpted lower abdominals.

“Best offer I’ve had all day,” Ron grins delightedly. He looks around them, scratching at his flame-red hair. “What, here?”

“Wow. You probably shouldn’t speak unless I tell you to,” Pansy instructs with a deep sigh. “No – I’ll Side-Apparate you back to my place in London. But first: a few ground rules.’

“We’ve covered the first one – if you can’t say anything intelligent, keep your mouth shut.’

“Two – you are solely responsible for your own orgasms.’

“Three – when I’m done with you, you sleep on the couch until I’m ready to take you home in the morning.’

“Four – If you do anything that I don’t explicitly agree to, or if you brag about this to anyone, I reserve the right to shrivel your testicles down to the size of baby chestnuts.” She nods to the tree.

“Are you in, or out?”

Ron doesn’t hesitate. “In.”

Pansy firmly grabs his chilled forearms. “Hold on tight, Big Red.”

* * *

“Harder.’

“No, harder still – don’t hold back, Big Red. Can’t you feel how wet I am? You’re not that big, anyway. Fuck. Me. _Harder_.”

Ron is equal parts extraordinarily aroused and supremely frustrated. He grits his teeth and pushes into the sexy witch forcefully enough to jolt the brown leather Camelback sofa forward a few inches. He plants his feet determinedly and resets his hold on Pansy’s slim hips.

“Better. Rub my clit. No, higher, higher – _there_. Up and down, not too softly, not too hard. Like that! _Oooohhhh_ ,” Pansy pants as Ron obediently complies.

“Bite my neck and talk dirty, Big Red. You feel fucking fantastic,” Pansy throws him a bone. _Heh_.

“You filthy little witch,” Ron husks into her sweating neck. She smells incredible – a light, fruity fragrance at odds with her exotic dark beauty. He could sniff her throat all night. He licks at her salty nape, biting down harder than he’s ever dared before. Pansy moans.

“You love my big cock pumping your hot, tight pussy from behind – don’t you, Pansy Parkinson?” Ron growls.

“Say that again. My full name. Louder.”

“Pansy –“ _thrust_ – “Parkinson” – _thrust_ – “you are so fantastically sexy. I’m gonna make you come so hard, you’re gonna scream my name until you forget your own tonight – “ Ron breaks off to clamp his even white teeth down on the base of her left trapezius muscle, loving Pansy’s reactive deep groan and the way her splendidly curved rump pushes back against his frantically tunnelling dick – “but that’s OK, baby – I’ll remind you… _PANSY PARKINSON_.”

Their joining is messy, loud, crude, and spectacular. Pansy has been insulting Ron’s sexual prowess since she pounced on his willing body mere moments after they’d Apparated into her fancy lounge room, and she’s called all the shots – hell, she hasn’t even allowed him to kiss her on the mouth – and yet, Ron is rendered near-delirious by the gloriousness of their sexual encounter.

Pansy is lissome, sleek, strong, and as beautiful as her namesake; but she is no fragile flower. Her unabashedly raw carnality and frank, uncompromising demands are unbelievably arousing. Ron growls again as he feels her tightening around his swollen organ. Pansy starts screaming unintelligibly – and amazingly loudly.

“That’s it, _Pansy_ _Parkinson_ – come, baby, come on my cock, come so hard you see stars, yeah, I wanna fuck you all night –“

Desperate not to embarrass himself, Ron keeps thrusting powerfully, maintaining the punishing rhythm until he is certain that Pansy has wrung every last drop of euphoria from her orgasm. She collapses into the couch until she is almost bent double. Ron gentles his thrusts, the corded muscles of his neck standing out like taut ropes. His balls are boiling and his dick is practically begging for release… but Ron wants to make sure he doesn’t break any of Pansy’s bloody strict sex rules.

He is devastated when Pansy rallies long enough to push him back; she acrobatically slithers forward over the high side-arm and onto the seat of the sofa, fully disengaging their bodies.

Her exquisite green eyes closed, she remains face-down as she disinterestedly confirms, “You didn’t come, Big Red… too bad, so sad. I need some sleep.”

Ron is left gaping like a dying fish as Pansy opens her eyes, rolls to a sitting position on the expensive leather and sinuously stretches her slender arms above her head. She stands up and arrogantly strolls past the bitterly disappointed young redhead.

“There’s a throw rug in the ottoman. I might call you in later for Round Two – I’ll see how I feel. Thanks, Big Red.”

The final insult is Pansy’s firm slap of Ron’s freckle-flecked muscly arse. She winks, clearly amused by his discombobulation.

Pansy disappears around the corner; Ron hears a door close a few moments later.

Raging hard-on forgotten, he flops down hopelessly on the Camelback. A disquieting thought fills his confused mind.

Is this how I’ve treated women? Like… _walking, talking sex dolls_? He uneasily suspects it to be true.

And why do I ache for Pansy to come back out and do it all over again?

Ron clutches at his wildly tufted rusty locks and groans loud and long.

* * *

Bill opens his eyes to the familiar surrounds of Shell Cottage’s homey lounge room, immediately scanning the lamp-lit interior for any sign of Fleur. The house is silent and feels empty; and Fleur is nowhere to be seen. Disquiet increasing with every step, Bill quickens his pace as he checks each room in turn.

He is on the verge of panic when he looks out the small, diamond-paned landing window that offers a view of the beach and bordering sand dunes. A dark, huddled shape breaks the monotonous horizontal lines of the seaside landscape, and Bill can just discern a tiny dot of light beside the crouched form. He hurries down the staircase and out the back door to investigate.

The frigid night air bites at Bill’s uncovered neck and face as he races toward his target. At the top of the dune, his beaten-up brown boots scuff the soft sand as he judders to a stop.

Lowering to his haunches, Bill asks softly, “Fleur? Why are you sitting out here in the bitter chill, darling?”.

His beautiful wife slowly turns her tear-stained face to meet his concerned regard. Bill holds his breath. Will she tell him to leave again?

“Oh, Bill… I ‘ave been a silly, selfish girl… I came outside to clear my mind,” she whispers. “I did not theenk you would return… not after zee terrible things I said.”

The scarred curse-breaker instinctually leans closer to gather Fleur into his arms; she stays him with a trembling, dainty hand.

“ _Non_ , please – I ‘ave things I must tell you, Bill,” Fleur speaks the soft words with sorrowful resignation. The pearlescent-blonde witch draws her knees beneath her chin as she swivels to face her husband.

Bill sinks to the granular surface, mirroring her pose as he awaits her explanation in sombre silence. He longs to hold Fleur’s hand or touch her velveteen cheek, but stifles the urge. They need to talk.

Fleur takes a shuddering, shallow breath. “Bill – you were right, what you j’accused me of – I ‘ave been obsessed with zee desire to grow our family. I thought… I thought eet would be so easy, you know? We ‘ave been so ‘appy together, in our little ‘ome. The babies – they are zee next step.” She huffs a cheerless scoff.

“I am arrogant in zis, too. Every month that passes, I am unhappier, for there is no baby. I became angry – why not me? Why not us? I worry – is it zee Zeela ‘eritage? I feel ashamed of my blood.”

“Oh no – sweetheart, no –“ Bill tries to reassure his troubled spouse, feeling useless as she shakes her head.

“Please, Bill – let me say my piece.” Fleur waits for his reluctant nod before she resumes.

“I ‘ave been only theenking of me; I do not consider ‘ow zis makes you feel. I let zis baby who does not exist consume me, consume my life. I feel you withdrawing and I push you further away, I am at odds with zee ‘ole world for not giving me what I desperately want.”

She tips up her head, her indigo eyes sheened with tears that Bill aches to kiss away.

“I am sorry, my Bill. _Je suis désolé, mon coeur_. Can you forgive me? Can we find each other again, _s'il vous plait?_ ”.

This time, Bill doesn’t hesitate to pull Fleur into his hungry arms; he sprinkles her lustrous blonde head with tiny, desperate, passionate kisses as he murmurs brokenly.

“Fleur – my darling, my sweetheart, my beloved wife – can you forgive me for not giving you the support you needed? For not addressing the problem shadowing our life, instead of pulling away? I should have told you how I was feeling… I’m so sorry, Fleur. I try to show you I love you... sometimes it’s hard for me to say the words you need to hear.”

He feels Fleur nod fervidly as she burrows deeper into his embrace. “We do not always speak zee same languages, _non_?” Fleur feebly jokes as she clutches Bill tighter. “Engleesh, French, zee love languages…”

“No, we don’t, do we? I promise to listen, and to speak. And I promise not to leave again, no matter how we argue.”

“And I promise you I will theenk before I shout, and I will not tell you to leave… no matter ‘ow we argue,” Fleur agrees. “We go together to zee doctors, and ask ‘ow we become pregnant, _oui_?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Bill concurs. He swallows down his nerves. “Fleur – do you think I am too old, too scarred, too… lupine?”

Fleur eases her tight hold to prod her forefinger vehemently into his sinewy chest.

“Never! You said zat, Bill – not me! You were made for me, William Arthur Weasley. I love you, _mon_ _loup rouge_.” She snuggles her fair head against his heart again.

Bill folds his brawny arms more firmly around his precious bride. “You were made for me, Fleur Isabelle Delacour Weasley. I love you, my shining star.”

He bends his auburn head to her silvered one; their wind-chilled lips meet sweetly and softly, each gifting the other warmth, comfort, forgiveness, commitment; and deep, requited love. They exchange whispered endearments between gentle kisses, before Bill quietly helps Fleur to her feet to begin the short walk back to their welcoming little cottage.

I guess I owe that fool little brother of mine my thanks, as well as fifty Galleons… and his purloined kit and wand. Bill allows himself a small smirk as he ushers Fleur to precede him inside.

_Happy birthday, Ickle Ronniekins._

* * *

**French translations:**

_Je suis désolé, mon coeur –_ I’m sorry, my heart.

 _s'il vous plait –_ please _._

 _mon_ _loup rouge_ – my red wolf.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Harry Potter world, which is trademarked by J. K. Rowling. I do not claim any ownership over those characters or the world of Harry Potter. This story is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of J.K. Rowling's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official storyline. I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story.


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